


The Spark

by FawkesyLady (Tarma)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarma/pseuds/FawkesyLady
Summary: Marcus Flint is a wizard with a razor and owner of the Flint and Steel Salon in London. When the brilliant but reclusive owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is forced into his chair, can Marcus put history aside and help? Will sparks fly, or will the whole place go up in flames...Written for HPFT @beyond the rain's The Rule of Three Challenge 2018, won third place!3 Random Harry Potter Universe Characters: George Weasley, Marcus Flint, and Luna Lovegood





	The Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Coromandel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Coromandel) for her help as a beta on this story, in spite of Incredibly Stressful Finals. Love Ya, duck.

 

“You are only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it. It is what will keep you alive.” - Robin Williams, Roxy. 1977.

 

* * *

 

 

_FIVE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS. Ministry plans to unveil a new War Memorial in Millenium park, the site of one of the more public attacks suffered by the people of London. Ceremony is set for May 2, 9 AM but the Ministry is cautioning citizens to avoid detection. Rumor is that Her Majesty the Queen will be in attendance in an unprecedented move to better integrate key non-magical leaders of the world. Observances will be held on the grounds at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, however we must remind our readers that these will not be open to the general public. For those interested, a Festival is being held in Hogsmeade that weekend to celebrate the end of the second Wizarding War. All are welcome._

 

Setting the Daily Prophet aside, Marcus warmed his hands upon his mug of tea. He always found historian’s accounting strange, as the conflicts that revolved around Lord Voldemort were confined to the UK, whereas the conflict that surrounded Grindelwald spilled over into the non-magical peoples all over the world, but most focused in Europe. Shouldn’t it be at least the third wizarding war? Or was the conflict counted as starting in the 1970’s with an unusually long break but still the second in its entirety?

 

History was a subject that Marcus struggled with in school and it wasn’t the only reason he was made to repeat his eighth year, to his family’s shame. He didn’t like to talk about it, but in hindsight the delay in graduation was perhaps one of the best things that could have happened to him, setting a chain of events in motion that his student self would never have expected. After graduation he had knocked about London, accepting various small jobs that took advantage of his Quidditch-hardened physique.

 

It was only divine providence in the guise of his Grand-mère which stopped him from getting truly bound up in the war like so many of his classmates. After discovering to her horror that her only grandson was spending his time helping out in gentleman’s clubs as mere security, a job she later declared was only suitable for trolls, Grand-mère Flint recalled him home to Paris under pain of disownment. But for her, he might  have been a mere footnote in history, reduced to a name chiseled into a monument or listed as a successfully prosecuted wizard who lent his wand to the wrong cause.

 

Now he owned a trendy hair salon in Diagon Alley, having returned to his native soil only two years ago. He was modestly successful, and he owed that in small part to his own physical transformation. It was unusual for his old classmates to recognise him, for he had been quite the ugly duckling. He’d grown taller and his teeth were magically straightened shortly after he arrived in France. The physical changes weren’t the only reason he wasn’t readily recognisable, however. He was a very different person.

 

Under his Grand-mère’s shrewd eye, he transformed out of boyhood into the wizard he is today by cracking his formerly narrow view of the world wide open with determination that he’d not end up like his own parents. At first he thought her unreasonably strict and stubborn, but as time passed he came to crave her approval even if it was dearly bought. She believed in him, and in holding him to high standards she lifted him up. While he was pleased by the critical acclaim he mustered in the first year of his business, it was the moment when his reserved Grand-mère spoke highly of his skill and success to her friends in his hearing. She’d never directly say that she was proud of him, but her approval filled him to the bursting point.

 

Many others had not been so fortunate after the Wizarding world, falling on hard times in payment for ill-advised allegiances. His father was convicted for his involvement in the machinations within the business world and had served his sentence, which was short but left the family much poorer for the fines levied by the Wizengamot. Mother kept herself pleasantly sauced as her own flawed way of coping, but still worked at keeping up appearances by regularly taking lunch with her much shrunken circle of friends in a string of trendy eateries. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered that she’d be due in soon for her curl and set.

 

He supposed that he should be grateful that his mother showed support for his vocation, for a true vocation it was, but she had a talent for transfiguring praise into denigration. Most particularly, he wished that she would stop framing his career in the setting of his father’s own failures, as though he’d been given a handicap that prevented true success in life.

 

Checking the time, he drank deeply of the bitter herbal tea he favoured, letting its astringency wash away the sticky residue of the pudding and the maudlin thoughts that he indulged along with it.

 

A sweet bell toned at the approach of a customer, indicating that his tea break was over. It was show time.

 

The receptionist was a house elf who was liberated from the Lestrange holdings. She answered the ad he posted in the Quibbler by popping in on his Sunday breakfast and from there she bullied her way into his life and heart.

 

Kitty looked up at the sound, her large silver eyes sizing up the custom. “Welcome to Flint and Steel salon, valued patrons. You _do_ have an appointment, yes yes. Very good. My name is Kitty.” She stood on a chair behind a desk made for humanoids and looked back to check on Flint’s whereabouts. “Would you like some tea?”

 

Slim and blonde, a vision of ethereal beauty that only a witch could realise, she nodded the affirmative, her hand gripping the arm of a very shabby looking wizard whose glower suggested to all the world that he very well might disapparate at any moment. “Oh yes, that would be nice. Do you have gurdy-root? Oh, no matter then, anything would be fine, thank you, Miss Kitty.” It was a real tragedy that she was dressed so oddly, with layers of Muggle shirts belted over a pair of neon yellow leggings whose waving black lines made him feel nauseated. She still favoured trash over jewels and had a chain about her neck that was heavy with a profusion of charms fashioned from found objects.

 

Sentiment stirred in Marcus; a pleasure at seeing an old acquaintance whose value was amplified by the stretch of years and loss. He approached, and overheard a thread of low commentary.

 

“Gloompucks are attracted to shabbiness, or so I’ve noticed, and that one’s been following you for months. Rolf’s been looking for the right name, for if you can discover their names they have to give you a boon.” Luna’s lilting voice hadn’t changed, she still had a distanced matter of fact manner about her, simultaneously intimate and on the cusp of drifting away.

 

Marcus never was close to Lovegood, but the lens of time was kind and she hadn’t changed a bit. Not so her companion, or was it prisoner? Marcus’ breath hitched as understanding struck hard like a lead-weighted bludger to his gut.

 

Looking out from a grizzled thatch of silver-threaded auburn hair was a barely recognisable, emphatically miserable husk of a wizard: the war hero and wildly successful entrepreneur, George Weasley. Unlike Luna, he had quite a history with the younger man, both on and off the Quidditch field. There was no mistaking his identity as George’s voice had not changed, “I said I’d go to the dinner tonight. Isn’t that enough for you?”

 

Stunned, Marcus held his breath as George met his gaze.

 

“I don’t mind really, they are making me go too. I do like Ginny ever so much and she said this would make your mother happy.” Luna’s lighthearted voice sounded as though it had travelled through water. “You have such a lovely mother, you know.” She let a few heartbeats of silence pass, and Marcus could sense the ghost of Luna’s own childhood grief seeping through the deceptively innocuous compliment. Blinking, she took out a small box and placed it on the receptionist’s desk, changing the subject. “You should have tried these brownies, George. They’re delightful, a witch from Wales uses potions principles in her baking. They are very hard to get, there is a waiting list, you see. The pie is even better but my name won’t be coming around on that one for another two years.”

 

Brown eyes narrowing at Marcus, George grumbled, “What’s this?” He wasn’t paying the boxed sweets any mind.

 

The instinct to perform under pressure propelled Marcus back into action, shoving his discomfort into the back of his mind for later examination. He pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile onto his face and introduced himself to his newest patrons, consciously wrapping himself in French affectation, counting on it to be as effective as a cloak of invisibility. He often emphasised the bit of culture he’d picked up in the four years he’d spent in France as part of a work persona. “Bienvenue au salon Flint and Steel, madame et monsieur!” He offered both a nod of acknowledgement, smoothly continuing his introduction. “Je suis Marcus, proprietor.”

 

As if on cue, Kitty popped into view at his elbow, her eyes bright with the fervour of a hospitality fanatic. Her arms were laden with a tray that included four cups, a kettle, and the other trimmings necessary to a proper tea.

 

George jumped, taking a step backward and blinking in astonishment as the elf went about her business. He was scowling, but the effect was blunted by the copious amounts of facial hair that hid his mouth.

 

Letting go of George’s arm, Luna stepped forward and went up on tiptoe in front of Marcus.

 

Without even considering, he leaned down and they exchanged kisses as one might expect of old friends. Her voice was low in his ear, under the cover of the gesture, “Lovely to see you, Marcus. You look wonderful.”

 

Marcus leaned back and chuckled ruefully. Well, she was a Ravenclaw. He looked down at her, surprised at the warmth he felt rising in response to the witch’s greeting. “Ah, mon amie, Luna! Are you going to let me work with this enchanting spun moonlight that you take for granted?”  He reached out, but fell short of actually winding his fingers in her fine hair, his mind already dreaming up ways to bring out her natural beauty. “I could do much with this canvas.”

 

Luna took the complement with serenity, “Not today, thank you. It is a new moon, I think it would be difficult to make any impact. Some other time.”

 

Turning to George, he found the wizard staring sourly back at him over his cup of steaming tea. Tough audience. Well, measure for measure. “So you, sir will be my client today?” Canting one hip to the side, Marcus tilted his head and considered the Weasley mogul. Clucking with tongue on teeth, he walked around to George’s side, his hand on his chin as one might use to display interest when looking at a new painting or the latest robes from Paris.

 

Silence stretched between them for several heartbeats before Luna answered for George. “You must forgive my friend. He is out of sorts.”

 

Ah, that answered that question.

 

Blithely continuing, Luna explained, “This is George Weasley. And he needs a trim before the rehearsal dinner tonight.” She stood straighter, shoulders back and added in a firm voice, “Under orders of the bride, who has promised to hex you if you vex me.” She smiled winningly at Marcus, adding, “No idle threat, I assure you.” Everyone knew how powerful Ginny Weasley’s hexes were. What she could do with a wand and some bogies was the stuff of legends.

 

“Naturellement.”  Marcus didn’t take his eyes off of Weasley, who resembled a cornered wild animal, moments from deciding between attack or flight. The pinched lines between his brows looked wrong on George, the tension in his shoulders was out of place. Even when provoked, George once maintained openness and surety, now buried deep with his innocence and his twin. This was going to be a real challenge.

 

Marcus loved magic, but he wasn’t a strong wizard. His true talent was with his eye and hands, once used in more vulgar work as a chaser. Now he bent to the delicate tasks of a hair stylist. He’d found a passion for cutting hair in France, a passion that his Grand-mère strongly encouraged. It was a transformative power, one that came quite easily to him. It was much more natural to him than animal-human transfiguration. With his blades, a little bit of magic, and a lot of vision, he helped people see themselves differently and thereby feel better. He could take off years or amplify what was already there, hidden like a masterwork in a block of marble waiting for Rodin to uncover it.

 

This raw material was damaged, asymmetrical. An ear was missing, a detail which was new to Marcus. “So, Mister Weasley. What can I do for you today?” He smiled at George, channeling good will and confidence, both genuine. He also let his eye travel up and down George from head to toe, willfully looking past the surface to find the remnant of the lad who was brave enough to give Draco Malfoy a well deserved pummeling in front of the whole school. Everyone admired the display of magical power and imagination that he and his twin brother planned as a parting statement as they quit school in open defiance of Dolores Umbridge’s rules. Grief for Fred dimmed George’s brilliance, and seeing his classmate this way made his heart twist as though the loss were new again.

 

Marcus was inspired by Fred and George as a student. He’d never really been able to carry off any of the stunts he attempted in answer, all in the name of attempting to break Gryffindor’s iron grip on the House Cup. He’d eventually come to appreciate how impossible a task it was with Dumbledore rattling about. He’d come to blows over it more than once.

 

He doubted Weasley would hold those dusty old schoolboy rivalries against him if he figured out who he really was, but where was the fun in that? Taking a chance, he winked at George and was rewarded with a stab of small-minded triumph when George choked on his tea and spilled it down the front of his robes. _Got him_.

 

“Apologies sir.” Marcus plucked a square of linen from his breast pocket and held it out to George.

 

George was too busy swearing and juggling the china cup, a brownie and his wand to notice, so Marcus neatly dodged a wayward splash of tea and managed to reach around to blot at the beaded drops gathering on the wool of his client’s robes.

 

Typical for many nouveau-riche bachelors, George spent a respectable amount on his wardrobe but employed an assistant to take of it and then saddled the poor soul with unreasonable restraints that forbade any real changes for the better. This sad ensemble, comprised of a stained jumper and denim slacks was a step backwards for George. Marcus was exposed to the twins’ style briefly while working as a bartender and its memory left scars. As loud and unapologetic as their humour, their clothes left one feeling as though they’d been unwittingly staring into garish twin suns. The Weasley twins went over the top with full dragon leather suits and brightly coloured Muggle clothes underneath. It was certainly a statement, even if it made one’s eyes water.

 

It was easy to get caught in your inner world when so many ghosts walked about. A hand roughly snatched the linen out of Marcus’ grasp and he watched with a growing sense of unease as George turned away from him.

 

“What you can do for me, _Marcus_ , is get this over with. I’m a very busy wizard and my absence from the shop is most inconvenient today. Even if it is for my dear sister’s sake.” Turning around, George handed back the colorful square of cloth, which now was magically dried, if a bit tea-stained about the edges. Perhaps finding purchase in a familiar feeling, he gestured to the chair in front of the mirror. “So, am I supposed to sit there?”

 

Luna’s giggle distracted both men, “Oh these brownies are the best. Would you like one, Miss Kitty? And you, friend gloompuck? You must be careful, you are almost visible this far from the jokeshop.”  Both wizards had to drag their attention away from Luna, courtesy dictating that they not stare as she addressed a blank space in the air to the left of George, around the level of his hips.

 

Marcus folded the rag, for that is what it was now, and stuffed it into his back pocket. “A moment more. I need to talk to you about what you want.”

 

“A trim.” George Weasley was as miserly with his words as he was his time, it seems.

 

Two could play this game. “How short?”

 

Weasley lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “How am I to know? I’m just window dressing for Ginny. Do something that would make my mother happy.”

 

Luna spoke up, “I think gloompucks prefer black. Perhaps George would look nice in fuschia?Or maybe carmine? Of course, if you would rather we could just dress you in yellow sequins. That’s certain to get rid of him, and you wouldn’t need a haircut. Daddy says yellow is good luck for weddings”.

 

George’s brow furrowed in thought. Was wearing a yellow sequined robe really that more appealing to the recluse than getting a haircut? Marcus had his work cut out for him, if the wizard was that resistant.

 

The witch sipped her tea, before blithely adding, “Of course your mother and Ginny would never trust me with such a task again, and would probably make you come back here and the sequins would be for nought but my amusement. I’ll be perfectly happy either way. Your move, George.” She turned to the House Elf, “You really must try a brownie, Miss Kitty.”

 

George’s jaw remained shut, but a rippling of his facial muscles suggested that he was exerting self control, so Marcus decided to try and move the proceedings along before his prospective client bolted from the premises.

 

“And your facial hair, sir?” It did look as though George had put some effort into it, as it had been trimmed at least once in the past fortnight. Perhaps that will loosen his tongue long enough to express a preference.  

 

Lifting his hand up to his beard, George scrubbed his fingers through the scraggly mess in thought. Camouflage or security blanket? Perhaps a bit of both. “Mum hates my beard.” He arched a single eyebrow. “I’ll give you an extra tip if you can make her change her mind.” A faint spark of humor could be seen in that vaguely conspiratorial glance.

 

Spirit lifting in response to that hard-won concession, he leapt to meet that challenge. “We are keeping the beard. Now you may sit.” Marcus performed a slight bow, one corner of his mouth pulling up in amusement as Weasley carefully slipped into the chair and his domain. It was time to get to work.

 

 

* * *

  


Luna sat in the front, watching the two wizards in curiosity. Both were very different to the boys she knew in school, although only George had given her any attention. The best that could be said of Marcus was that he’d never been cruel to her, although truth be told, he’d never been _anything_ to her. How people grew.

 

George lost his way when his brother died. Brief bouts of public gestures of humour, such as emulating his late uncle Bilius with new and exciting ways of conjuring things from unexpected places, were what most came to expect from the man. He donated money to worthy causes and claimed that for his civic duty, but he just wouldn’t engage with other people. It was too painful for him, as his entire life’s framework had been built for two and now there was a gap and only silence where Fred had fit. It was as though he expected Fred to come back at any moment, and was sitting guard over his life, willing it to stand still against that moment.

 

Marcus, well... he was a revelation. Only in name was he recognisable to most. Gone was the drive to win, to take, and to be seen doing it. He had different motives now. Where George was distanced, Marcus was engaged with the people around him.

 

He spoke to George in the mirror, keeping up a low but steady conversation as he massaged suds into a lather, twirling the locks up into a single peak with a smirk.

 

That should have been funny, but George stared malevolently at his mirror image and it glared back at him in kind.

 

Luna murmured to Miss Kitty, “Oh, he hates mirrors. Maybe I should have mentioned it to Marcus.”

 

“Poor child.” The elf’s ears drooped in sympathy.

 

Luna wondered just how old the delightful creature was. She didn’t seem particularly affected by the brownie’s special magic, meant to intensify pleasure. Hermione said that they were much like catnip, but for witches. Rumor was that she kept a stock of it for herself, and who could blame her?

 

Confusion pinched Marcus’ brow but after a moment Slytherin cunning took over and he shifted George’s position so that he could see his missing ear. That broke the spell and George snorted, shifting in his chair. The stylist let out a covert sigh of relief.

 

“I think I’ll leave some of these brownies for Marcus. Hazard pay.”

 

A showy jet of water appeared at the tip of Marcus’ wand and washed over Weasley’s hair, the stream defied gravity by falling upwards to a drain set into the ceiling for the purpose.

 

Luna squinted, trying to make out the aura of enchantment that made it possible. “What a wonderful idea.”

 

Before long, Marcus wielded comb and blade with the precision of a duelist. Clumps of wet hair dropped to the floor and Luna’s eyes widened as she noticed little constructs of straw and wood scuttled about, sweeping the evidence into a paper bag laying on its side.

 

George’s eyes had drifted closed part way through the process. Was he sleeping? Marcus didn’t seem to mind, as the chin to chest position that his client was drooping into was not an issue for the quality of his work. He’d switched from commentary to tuneless humming.

 

At length, blade was set aside and he turned to a cabinet on the wall, considering the bottles therein before plucking one out to use. He held it up and Miss Kitty nodded at him vigorously, performing a quiet little hop from her station at the desk.

 

Luna was curious about the elf. “Tell me, where did you get that extraordinary painting?”

 

Miss Kitty was transported, squeaking refrains of praise for her employer’s friends from Paris, one who had gifted the salon with the piece over her desk. Before long, Luna was being led about the room by the hand, and was getting the full tour of all of the art in the salon. The collection was quite eclectic, and Miss Kitty’s favourite piece depicted a lost dish towel that was snagged in a bramble.

 

It was Luna’s turn to exclaim when they came to a framed piece that was mixed between painting and sculpture, depicting a man in a full white jumpsuit that was as sparkling as his smile. “Is that Gilderoy Lockhart?” Luna squinted, “Well, the hair is too dark, I see.”

 

The painting winked at Miss Kitty, whose ears were turning a deep shade of coral. “Yes, Miss. They call this a velvet Elvis.”

 

“I think I’ve heard of him. Musician?” Luna stifled a giggle as the man in the painting gyrated his hips.

 

The elf’s voice was modulated low now, perhaps sensible of the scandalous nature of the portrait. “An American, I’m told. I found it at a white elephant sale last year.” Miss Kitty fidgeted, seeming uncomfortable before she amended her statement, “I bought it with my own money.” She towed Luna away, robbing her of the chance to comment further.

 

Luna kept an eye on Marcus, George, and the gloompuck. It took a practised eye to see creatures who did not wish to be noticed, and Luna was working on a catalogue with Rolf Scamander of unseen magical creatures who seemed to feed on the emotional energies of witches and wizards. Everyone knew about Dementors, of course, but there were so many more for those who knew how to look.

 

The expanded, dense shadow that was tucked in by George’s feet was most certainly a gloompuck and she spent quite a lot of time studying it over the past few years. She’d read that most people either succumbed to theirs or threw them off in the first two years after the loss of a loved one, but George unconsciously had struck a balance with his. It’s influence in the joke shop and his lab was diminished, and in public George clung to the gloompuck, feeding it up on his pain, leaving his soul’s wounds open and bleeding.

 

There were rare moments when George forgot himself and cracked a joke, and Luna could see the grip of the gloompuck loosen a fraction before renewed awareness of Fred’s absent laughter strangled the fleeting joy with terrible loss, rolling back any progress that much further.

 

Luna split another brownie with Miss Kitty before shifting her attention back to Marcus, and watched as the wizard massaged a tonic into George’s hair and scalp. He was taking a long time to do it, but what astounded in particular was that George was asleep in the chair.

 

“Does that happen often?”

 

Miss Kitty grabbed an ear and twirled it about a finger in thought. “Only sometimes. People who are under a great deal of strain seem to melt in the chair. Master Flint is a wizard.” She blinked before amending the statement with, “But this isn’t that kind of magic, Miss.”  

 

As he worked the same into his client’s beard she watched Marcus murmur a question into George’s remaining ear. That fetched the sleeping wizard away from his dreams and George straightened up in the chair, peering back at the image in the mirror with bleary eyes. Marcus turned away, a subtlety that spoke volumes, giving George a moment to collect himself.

 

After changing blades, he returned to George’s side and draped him with a thick towel. “Almost done, sir.” Marcus’ voice rung louder after the contrasting silence, echoing off the walls of the small shop.

 

Luna smiled inwardly. If her gut instinct was correct, Marcus had it all wrong. His work has only just begun. Feeling that she was intruding on an intimate moment, she turned back to Miss Kitty and inquired after a framed piece of art that hung on the wall beside the reception desk.

  


* * *

 

  


George was dimly aware of Marcus as he worked. The man’s touch was practised and there was a soothing rhythm that invited relaxation. He told himself that it had been only a minute that he’d closed his eyes, and a heady scent of cloves and musk filled his nose as he inhaled deeply. His scalp buzzed with the memory of firm fingers performing a gentle massage was evidence enough that he’d missed more than he thought. A pang of vague loss started to replace the ease he experienced moments ago.

 

Marcus’ back was turned in the mirror, so he took the opportunity to shift his position to make room for the insistent part of him that had been paying too much attention. Oh, now that was embarrassing. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to picture Dolores Umbridge in nothing but knickers. It was enough to make anyone soft.

 

A heavy white towel was slipped about his shoulders and Marcus appeared at his side. George had been indulged in a hot towel shave before, but always to a clean shave in the past. He eyed Marcus before speaking, “You know, while my Mum would prefer no beard a’tall, that won’t meet the conditions of the set challenge.”

Marcus smirked as he poured what looked like oil into his hand before approaching. “Don’t you concern yourself. I am not likely to forget a challenge from the famous George Weasley. I intend to win your mother over to your beard, as you said.”

 

The reference to his notoriety was galling. He’d been relieved when Marcus asked after his preferences regarding the missing ear and had not broached the subject of the war, or George’s very public grief.

 

“See that you do.” The response sounded short after he bit it out, but something about this whole situation bothered him. It itched at the back of his mind as he sat there, just out of his reach to scratch. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt that way this afternoon.

 

George was brought back to the moment as Marcus stepped between him and the mirror to work the oil into his whiskers. They were already shorter than before, they must have been trimmed when he was resting his eyes.

 

Steaming towels were draped about his neck and face, blocking off speech, although he could yet breath through his nose. “I hope you’ve allowed your sister to pick out your clothes for this evening? It sounds like an important night.”

 

“I think she may have sent something over, but I haven’t had the time to think about it. Work never lets up.” Mainly because he preferred it that way. It was the only thing that distracted him from the pain that was always there, waiting should he let his guard down.

 

Marcus’ murmured response was almost too low to hear. “Who would have expected George Weasley to become all work and no play?”

 

Something else was out of place and he felt uneasy. Had the stylist meant for him to hear that? George chewed on his suspicions as Marcus worked and then suddenly it came to him. The man’s accent had slipped back to pure Queen’s English, no trace of french affectation colouring the undervoiced comment.

 

It was one thing to be asked to trust any person with a sharp blade near his throat, but it was quite a leap further to trust a wizard who was hiding something with anything nearby. His hands found the arms of his chair, gripping them tightly. A look in the mirror showed that Luna was still waiting and on impulse he called out to check in with her.

 

“Alright there, Lovegood?”

 

“Marvelous, George. Miss Kitty is quite the art aficionado. Really you should ask her next time you come. She should show you her Elvis, he’s so interesting.”

 

Luna’s idea of interesting was rather unpredictable. Wait, next time?!

 

Relaxed and moving with self-assurance as though he were King of all creation, Marcus favoured Luna with a warm smile that reached his eyes. “Miss Kitty has a passion for l'objet d'art. I shall have to buy a larger shop to house her treasures.” George watched warily as Marcus removed the hot towels, a lathered brush at hand. It only took a moment for Marcus to soap up jaw, cheeks and neck.  

 

A contrast to Marcus, George was uncomfortably aware of Marcus’ proximity to his thigh, did the man have to radiate warmth? He remained tense, clutching at the chair.

 

Excited squeaking and a tinkling laugh from Luna provided a distraction as Marcus leaned in, murmuring the entirely unnecessary, “Hold still, monsieur.”

 

The ice-cold blade scraped across George’s face, and after a few swipes he was surprised to find that the firm pressure felt good, like it was scratching an itch he didn’t know he had. Chilled air rushed over the sensitive skin exposed in the blade’s wake, and a frisson chased down his spine in answer. The hair on his scalp felt as though it might be standing on end.

 

“Lean back s’il vous plait.”

 

Swallowing, George did as asked, baring his neck to the blade and the unsettling wizard wielding it. The cuffs of Marcus’ Royal blue silk shirt were turned up, and the skin there showed nothing more alarming than a good tan. No dark mark. Why did this man unsettle him so much? It was only hair, he could grow more any time he wanted.

 

“To the left, if you will. Thank you.”

 

Concentrating on the sound of the blade on his skin, George made it through the ordeal with determined self-control. His mother disliked his facial hair not only because it was sloppy but because he was already showing signs of grey. She hated to be reminded that her babies weren’t little kids any more. More hot towels were applied and George forced himself to let go of the chair arms.

 

“You are very tense, George. Maybe you should consider a holiday?”

 

Suppressing a groan, he considered how to answer the nosy man. He settled on noncommittal. “Not this month. Maybe next year.”

 

Marcus returned, and after removing the towels, used them to wipe down George’s face before he applied a cooling potion, sharp with the scent of eucalyptus in his nostrils. Scissors made their only appearance today as Marcus trimmed the moustache and beard into ideal shape. George imagined that when he was done, Marcus may have sculpted the whiskers into something ridiculous, like a scene with swallows or a heart with the word “Mum” across it in relief.

 

Firmly suppressing a bubble of mirth that threatened to break loose at that mad mental image, George watched as Marcus tilted his head this way and that, examining his handiwork with a pleased hum.

 

“You clean up well, George.” He still stood in the way of the mirror, and George could only see the results reflected in the stylist’s clear hazel eyes. They crinkled in amusement, “Would you like to see for yourself?”

 

Folding his arms in front of his chest, George’s mood deflated. No, he would be just fine if he never had to look in a mirror again, thank you very much. “I’m sure you did fine.”

 

Eyebrows lifted in disbelief, Marcus subtly turned George’s chair so his left shoulder was canted forward and moved out of the way.

 

His hair had darkened with age, like a shiny Knut would tarnish, but Marcus had done something to emphasize the Weasley red. A subtle wave had been imposed on his formerly disordered thatching, giving shape to the locks left long as to cover his ears.

 

No silver showed in his beard, which was quite a difference, and George couldn’t decide if he liked it. He rather fancied that it lent a degree of maturity, helping people see past his youthful age. The trim itself was closer and the resultant shape emphasized his strong chin.

 

He never spent time on his own appearance anymore. He’d decided it was a waste of energy before, but there was no denying that he felt pretty good about the man looking back at him in the mirror. It had to be witchcraft.

 

“Is that glass enchanted, then?”

 

Marcus was offended, but the drama of the moment strengthened the Parisian twang. “Why would I allow that? I’m a wizard with a blade, not some carnival charlatan.”

 

Gruffly, George backpedalled, “Right, well. I suppose you did alright.” He idly fingered the hair that hung over the space his missing ear would have occupied.

 

That seemed to work, as the smile returned to Marcus’ face. “Fantastique.”

 

Luna appeared at George’s shoulder. “Neville was right, Marcus. You are spectacular.”

 

The stylist’s lips twitched up at the name and he performed a half-bow in the witch’s direction. “Good of him to recommend me. Always looking for more patrons, aren’t we, Miss Kitty?”

 

The house elf squeaked agreement, but didn’t interject as she was busy writing up the bill. Hmm. George didn’t know they learned how to write.

 

After George unfolded himself from the chair, stretching his back and neck, he turned and offered a hand to Marcus paired with a sincere, “Thank you.”

 

“Let me know if I won, or if Mrs Weasley calls foul. I am _always_ up for a challenge.”

 

A spark of intuition flared to life in the back of George’s mind as they shook hands and stepped away from one another.

 

Marcus winked at Luna, who giggled alarmingly in response. “Maybe you will let me play with you sometime, Miss Lovegood?”

 

“Luna, Marcus. It’s always been Luna.” They air-kissed their goodbyes before Marcus showed them both to the door.

 

It wasn’t until they were leaving that the spark flared into a flash of clarity for George.

 

Miss Kitty called after them, “Goodbye! Thank you for patronising Flint and Steel Salon! Please come again soon!”

 

Revelation burned his mind, its truth painfully clear and confirmed by the irrefutable evidence of his senses. He’d just had the best haircut and most arousing shave of his life at the hands of Marcus Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, opposite to Oliver Wood. The notion was completely insane, reality bending, and could not possibly be true. Irritation and disbelief coloured his voice as he growled, “ _Luna_ . You did _not_ just pay Marcus Flint to hold a blade to my throat.”

 

A goofy smile was already in place at her lips as she answered. “Not only that George, but I think you liked it.”

 

“I’ll deny it to any who ask. Who do you think they’ll believe?” His traitorous lips twitched into a smirk, completely draining the threat of any weight. As if Luna would care.

 

The bright laughter that answered him lessened the sting of truth. “George, you always know how to make me smile.”

 

An idea started to form in his mind as he hooked Luna’s hand into the crook of his elbow.  “I think I’ll take the rest of the day off. How would you like to go for ice cream?”

 

“Are you bribing me to silence?”

 

Swallowing, suddenly worried that he may have overstepped. “Maybe?” He had seen her eating those brownies of Hermione’s. Maybe she wasn’t hungry?

 

“Sounds good. I hope they still have the dirigible plum sauce. Let’s go!” She ran her hand down his arm and grabbed George’s hand, towing him along behind her.

 

Luna’s eagerness, and the sheer ridiculousness of Marcus Flint’s startling transformation made him throw his head and laugh like hadn’t done in years. Life was crazy like that, crazy and wonderful.

  


* * *

 

  


Kitty greeted Marcus with the mail the next morning, and an envelope from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes grabbed his attention at once. With a wary look at the schedule to test for time, he took it back to his tea nook and tore it open. A folded letter and a ticket dropped out.

 

_Marcus,_

 

_I am ever a man of my word. Mum was transported, and I think a choir of angels were commissioned to sing your praises. Imagine my surprise to find out that Harry already had been coming to you for over a year. I’d noticed his hair was fractionally better behaved but I’d thought he’d discovered Snape’s hair tonic recipe on the back of a shopping list or something equally insane. You’ve little to worry about growing your patronage with those kind of chops._

 

_Ginny may have been put out when I took the focus of attention off of her for a solid ten minutes at her dinner. Delightful._

 

_If you are the wizard I remember, which seems difficult to believe but Luna tells me it is so, I think you will appreciate this ticket and therefore offer it up as your prize. Let me know if you need a second, I might be able to obtain it for you at something of a personal cost. Seeing my mother so happy was priceless, so I will perforce still be in your debt._

 

  
__George Weasley_ _

 

  


Immensely relieved that George had not chosen to rekindle a rivalry that was well past dates, Marcus set the note aside to consider the ticket. Eye catching and glossy, colourful print drew his eye, promising admittance to an important game in the Quidditch finals coming up in just over a week. He he tapped it on his lower lip, considering its weight of implications and a wide range of possibilities spread out within his mind, a banquet table he hoped would be populated with more delights than bitter dishes. He had been promised a prize, after all.

 

Should he really read into a ticket to a Quidditch match so deeply? His mind picked at the awkward offer of an extra ticket, thinly veiled attempt to find out if Marcus was with anyone. Gryffindors, no subtlety at all. Slowly, a wide grin stretched his mouth and he laughed aloud. There was only one way to find out, and that was to show up and see what George had in mind.

 

He hadn’t looked forwards so much to a Quidditch match in years. Shaking his head to clear it of these dizzying thoughts, he muttered to no one in particular, “Utter madness!”

 

Noting the time, he was compelled to set his ticket aside to savour later. A customer was waiting for him, and if he had a extra bounce in his step and a little extra flare today, it was all for the better.

  


* * *

 

 

A/N: I hope dear readers, that you find and nurture the little spark of madness inside to sustain you through the coldest and darkest of times. JK Rowling penned the unforgettable quote, “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” The madness of imagination and humor can light the way and drive out the void of whatever grieves us. Never let anyone snuff yours out.

  
  



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